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Chapter 15
Astrid
Several days of nothing crawl by, and my insides are in turmoil, but no one seems to notice as I pick my cuticles until they bleed. Something needs to happen, but I’m in a state of perpetual waiting. The frustration builds up in me each time I call the jail about Nova’s status. The woman sighs when she hears my voice again. Well, fuck her. It’s not her best friend in jail. They won’t even let me see her without an okay from a judge. What kind of bullshit is that? Stonehaven trudges onward while my friends rot.
I’m outraged, but the fact is I wasn’t arrested that night. The difference can’t be ignored or denied. I’ve become privileged. I sneak my phone out of my bag while Getz drones on and amuses himself with another obscure story from back when he was a student. Yawn.
Astrid: Hey, Derick. Any word?
No reply.
I don’t bother to text him again. Why is he shutting me out? Is he blaming me, too, along with the other Monarchs? On rote, I immediately tap Nova’s number, but it goes straight to voice mail. Not knowing is gnawing at me, morphing minutes into hours. If I was at Mom’s apartment instead of in economics, I’d run over to Derick’s and find out what’s going on.
Getz stops to look at his phone, and then he looks at me. I clutch my phone in my lap and stare him in the eye. I’m not his darling student anymore—the newness faded weeks ago. I’m just another spoiled kid.
“Astrid, you are wanted in Rawlins’s office after class.” He eyes me for a moment as if I should explain and then goes back to the board to scribble on his chart.
Great. I want to talk to somebody, and it ends up being Dr. Rawlins. The law might have a long arm, but Dr. Rawlins has a firm grasp, and it reaches much farther. Needless to say, I’m in huge gobs of steaming hot trouble if I’m being summoned to her lair—Foxworth House. I start making a list of all the shit I’ve done in the last week. I smirk as I imagine her throwing a dart at a board, unable to choose the worst one. Then I groan, wondering if she’s going to make me sit in front of her desk and write another essay on good manners while she watches.
Today Dr. Rawlins wears the school colors—a navy blazer with a gray skirt. She looks like an advertisement for school spirit. Everything is perfectly in place, from her hair to her polished pumps. Even her scowl, directed at me, is perfect. I do everything to avoid looking her in the eye. I’m nervous that she might just show me how looks can kill.
“Your father called.” She grimaces as if she doesn’t want to talk to him either. “Let’s get straight to the point, because I resent your ill-spent youth wasting my time. So, is fornicating too dull for you? You have to start brawling in public now?”
My mouth drops open from the shock of hearing her be so direct. Rawlins isn’t playing the elusive game of reading my thoughts anymore. She’s not implying her meaning and expecting me to understand what a slightly raised eyebrow means or the clearing of her throat.
Rawlins twists her lips in apparent disgust. “I’m not having one little girl ruin the reputation of an institution that has withstood the test of time and scandal. You will not bring Stonehaven down and make me look like the town fool.”
I scoff, moving my head from side to side as if it can spin three hundred and sixty degrees. “Do you really think I’m the worst person here? Troublemaker extraordinaire? Do you really think all your trust-fund angels lie in their beds dreaming of lollipops and takeovers?”
She points her perfect fingernail at me and shakes her finger so fast it blurs. “I know you’re not, Astrid, but you keep getting caught. What if you had been arrested?” She pauses, but I don’t dare answer. With an evil look, Rawlins looks angry enough to smite me into a puff of smoke.
“Besides jail, you would’ve been in the papers, and the headline would’ve mentioned Stonehaven.” She clears her throat and looks up as if reading clickbait in the sky. “Stonehaven teenager slaps cop for taking her money.”
“But I didn’t get caught.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize that was not the thing to say.
“Are you going to keep on trying until you do?” she asks. “Your father doesn’t know how to handle you, so I told him to let me try.”
Shit! Men are bio-tools running on adrenaline and getting off on the physical. They focus on competing, collecting, and screwing. But once they exhaust their energy, they decide if they should continue or move on.
Most move on, but not women.
Women have overabundant patience—plotting, planning, and waiting for years to get that single moment of revenge. Rawlins has a glint in her steely eyes, and I know from a single look that the payoff will be brutal. Otherwise she won’t be satisfied. I hold my body still, as if the slightest motion might set her off.
I don’t dare speak, lest I piss her off more.
Eventually Rawlins tires of our standoff and motions toward the high-back leather chair. I sit down carefully, making sure my skirt doesn’t rise above my knees. But this is only a temporary retreat. She sits behind her desk and stares at the computer screen, building a mental wall that nothing can scale.
She eyes me, then the screen again. “You are suspended from all extracurricular activities and sports.”
I sit up in the chair and clutch the armrests. “But cross-country’s not over. We have another month. And we’re training for track in the spring.”
“They will be. But not you,” she replies without looking at me. “You are on probation until the end of the semester, and the only thing that will satisfy your probation period is a perfect report card.”
My back relaxes into the leather and holds me up. I was expecting hard labor—perhaps being made into her personal minion, cleaning her shoes, coloring her hair, and of course, the required ass-wiping after I kiss it. Instead Rawlins picks schoolwork. It isn’t a conscious gesture, but I shrug. I can handle that.
Rawlins smiles, which only proves she’s been watching me from the corner of her eye. “Straight As on all your exams.”
“What?” My eyes widen.
